Explore Chapter 10 of 'Camel Xiangzi' with the original Chinese text, English translation, detailed Chinese vocabulary explanations, and audio of the Chinese original. Listen and improve your reading skills.
Xiangzi was not clever enough to find an individual way out, nor bold enough to force a general reckoning. And so, utterly helpless, he was trapped all day long in a circle of his own grievances. Like all living creatures that have been hurt, he could think of nothing but gathering up the pieces of his life by himself. A cricket with a broken leg still tries to crawl with the ones that remain. Xiangzi had no real plan. He simply wanted to drift, one day at a time, one thing at a time, crawling wherever fate took him, with no thought of ever leaping up again.
There were still over ten days until the twenty-seventh, but his mind was completely fixed on that date. His waking thoughts, his muttered words, the images in his dreams-all centered on the twenty-seventh. It was as if, once that day was past, he would have a solution to everything, though he knew full well this was self-deception. Sometimes his mind wandered further afield-to taking the few dozen dollars he had to Tianjin, for instance. Once there, he might even change his trade and stop pulling a rickshaw altogether. Could Tigress really chase him to Tianjin? In his mind, any place you reached by train was terribly far away; surely she couldn’t pursue him there. It was a fine thought, but in his heart of hearts he knew it was a last, desperate resort. If he could possibly stay in Beiping, he would stay in Beiping! And so his thoughts circled back to the twenty-seventh. It was still the easiest, most convenient thing to do. If he could just muddle past this hurdle, perhaps the whole mess would resolve itself without further upheaval. Even if he couldn’t shake it off entirely, at least he’d have gotten past one obstacle.
But how to get past it? He had two ideas: one was to ignore the whole affair and simply not go to offer birthday felicitations. The other was to do exactly as she had instructed. These ideas were different, but their outcome was the same: if he didn’t go, she would never let it rest; if he did go, she wouldn’t let him off the hook either. He remembered when he’d first started pulling a rickshaw, how he’d imitated others and darted into any little alley to take a shortcut, only to end up in a looping lane that brought him right back to the street he’d started from. Now he was in just such an alley again, it seemed. Whichever way he turned, the result would be the same.
In his helplessness, he tried to look on the bright side: why not just marry her? What was so wrong with that? Yet, no matter how he looked at it, he felt stifled. When he pictured her face, he could only shake his head. Forget her face-consider her behavior! Hah! A man as proud and upright as himself, marrying such a tramp? He’d never be able to face anyone again, not even his parents in the afterlife! And who could say for sure the child in her belly was his? True, she might bring a few rickshaws with her, but was that guaranteed? Fourth Master Liu was not a man to be crossed! Even if everything went smoothly, he couldn’t bear it. How could he ever match Tigress? She had only to crook her little finger to make him dance to her tune until he lost all sense of direction. He knew exactly how formidable she was! To start a proper family, he simply could not take her. There was nothing more to be said! To take her would be the end of him-and he was not a man who held himself cheap! Impossible!
With no way to deal with her, he turned his hatred upon himself, longing to slap his own face hard and clean. But in truth, he had done nothing wrong. It was all a trap she had laid, waiting for him to stumble into it. The flaw seemed to lie in his own honesty-an honest man was bound to get the short end of the stick. There was no justice in it!
What pained him even more was having nowhere to pour out his grievances. He had no parents, no brothers, no friends. Ordinarily, he felt like a real man-head holding up the sky, feet planted on the earth, free and unfettered. Only now did he understand, with a pang of regret, that a man cannot live alone. His fellow pullers, especially, now seemed almost endearing. If he had made a few friends in the past-big, strong men like himself-then even with another Tigress to contend with, he wouldn’t be afraid. They would advise him, they would fight his battles. But he had always been alone. It’s not easy to find friends in a pinch! He felt a kind of fear he had never known before. If things went on like this, anyone could bully him. One man alone cannot hold up the sky!
This fear began to make him doubt himself. In winter, when his master had dinner parties or went to the theater, he always tucked the water cylinder of the calcium carbide lamp inside his jacket-if left on the rickshaw, it would freeze. Fresh from a run, his body slick with sweat, pressing that little cylinder of ice against his chest would make him shiver violently; it took a good long while for it to grow even slightly warm. Normally, he never gave it a second thought. Sometimes, tucking it away, he even felt a sense of superiority-those pulling broken-down rickshaws didn’t use calcium carbide lamps at all. Now it dawned on him that for the pittance he earned each month, he was expected to endure every hardship-not even a little water cylinder was allowed to freeze; it had to be cradled against his breast. His own chest, for all its breadth, seemed to count for less than that little tin cylinder. Once, he had believed pulling a rickshaw was the most ideal occupation, the path to building a family and a future. Now he shook his head inwardly. No wonder Tigress bullied him. He was nothing more than a man not even worth a little water cylinder!
On the third day after Tigress had accosted him, Mr. Cao went with friends to a late-night film. Xiangzi waited in a small teahouse, that little cylinder like a block of ice pressed against his chest. It was bitterly cold. The doors and windows of the teahouse were shut tight, the air thick with coal gas, the smell of sweat, and the foul, cheap smoke of cigarettes. Even so, a layer of frost flowers coated the windowpanes. The tea-drinkers were almost all private-rickshaw pullers. Some leaned their heads against the wall, closing their eyes to doze in the room’s fuggy warmth. Some held bowls of baijiu, offering a sip around before taking a slow drink themselves, smacking their lips after each mouthful and letting out a loud, cold belch. Some gnawed on thick, rolled-up pancakes, taking a bite that stretched their necks thick and red. Some wore grim expressions, airing their general complaints to the room-how they hadn’t stopped since first light, their bodies wet then dry, dry then wet, who knew how many times over! The rest were mostly chatting idly, but at these words they fell silent for a moment. Then, like birds scattering from a nest, each remembered the grievances of his own day and wanted to share them. Even the man with the pancake made room in his mouth to free his tongue, and while swallowing spoke, the veins on his forehead standing out. “You think pulling a private rickshaw is a fucking picnic?! I started at the goddamn crack of two and haven’t had a bite or a drop since! Just shuttling back and forth from Qianmen to Pingzemen-hic!-I’ve done three fucking rounds! In this weather, my arse is frozen damn near shut, just letting out wind!” He glanced around the room, nodded, and took another bite.
This turned everyone’s talk back to the weather, and from there each poured out his own tale of hardship. Xiangzi never said a word, but he listened intently to everything they said. Though their tones, accents, and specific complaints differed, all were curses and laments. These words, touching the grievances in his own heart, were like raindrops on parched earth-swallowed up thirstily. He could not, did not know how to, tell his own story from beginning to end. He could only soak up the bitterness of life from the words of others. Everyone suffered, and he was no exception. Knowing himself, he now felt sympathy for them all. When they spoke of sorrow, he frowned. When they spoke of absurdities, he smirked. This way, he felt united with them, all comrades in bitterness. Though he remained silent, it no longer seemed to matter. Before, he had thought them mere gossipers, their endless chatter proof they’d never get rich. Today, for the first time, it struck him that they weren’t just chattering-they were speaking for him, giving voice to the anguish shared by every rickshaw puller.
Just as the talk was at its liveliest, the door suddenly opened, letting in a blast of cold air. Almost everyone glared out angrily, wondering who could be so inconsiderate as to push the door open. The more anxious they were, the slower the person outside seemed to move, as if deliberately dawdling. The teahouse attendant called out, half-impatient, half-laughing, “Hurry up, for heaven’s sake! Don’t let all the heat out!”
Before he’d finished speaking, the person outside came in. He was a rickshaw puller too, looking to be in his fifties. He wore a padded jacket that was neither short nor long, shapeless as a bulrush basket, with cotton wadding poking out at the lapel and elbows. His face looked as if it hadn’t been washed in days, the color of his skin indistinguishable, save for his two ears, which were frozen a raw, startling red, like ripe fruit about to drop. Under a tattered cap, his pale, dry hair stuck out in disarray; beads of ice clung to his eyebrows and stubbly beard. He came in, grabbed a bench, and sat down with an effort, gasping out, “A pot of tea.”
The tea had not yet arrived. The old puller’s head began to sink slowly, lower and lower, until his whole body slid from the bench to the floor.
“Don’t move!” The teahouse proprietor, an experienced man, stopped them. He went over alone, loosened the old man’s collar, helped him up right there, propped a chair behind his back, and held his shoulders steady. “Sugar water! Quick!” Then he bent and listened near the old man’s neck. “Not phlegm,” he muttered to himself.
No one moved, but no one sat back down either. In the smoke-filled room, they blinked their eyes, all gazing toward the door. It was as if they had all agreed, without speaking, “That’s our future! When our hair turns ashen, every one of us is liable to drop dead just like that!”
“Eh?” The old puller opened his eyes. Seeing he was sitting on the floor, he drew up his legs and tried to rise.
When he had slowly finished the water, he looked at them all again. “Ah, thank you for your trouble, gentlemen!” he said, his voice remarkably gentle and kind, utterly unlike what one would expect from that bristly, mud-caked face. Having spoken, he tried to stand again. Three or four men hurried over to help him up. A faint smile appeared on his face, and he said with the same gentle tone, “It’s all right, it’s all right, no harm done! I was just cold and hungry, had a dizzy spell, that’s all! It’s nothing serious!” Though his face was caked with grime, that smile made them feel they were looking at a face that was gentle, clean, and fair.
Everyone seemed genuinely moved. The middle-aged man who had been holding the bowl of liquor had already drunk it dry. His eyes were bloodshot and now held a glint of tears. “Here, two ounces more!” By the time the liquor arrived, the old puller was sitting in a chair by the wall. The middle-aged man, a little tipsy himself, set the liquor respectfully before the old man. “My treat. Please drink. I’m past forty myself, to tell the truth. Pulling a private rickshaw is just scraping by-a year at a time, and your legs know it! In another two or three years, I’ll be just like you! You must be nearly sixty, sir?”
“Still young-fifty-five!” the old puller said, taking a sip. “The weather’s cold, can’t get fares. Me, well… my belly’s empty. Whatever few coppers I get, I spend on a drink, just to warm up a bit! Walking past here, I really couldn’t hold on any longer, thought I’d step in to get warm. The room was too hot, and I’ve had nothing to eat-must have fainted. It’s nothing, nothing! Thank you for your trouble, brothers!”
At this moment, the old man’s hay-like gray hair, the mud on his face, his charcoal-black hands, that tattered cap and threadbare padded jacket-all seemed to glow with a humble radiance. Like an idol in a dilapidated temple, he was broken yet retained a solemn dignity. Everyone watched him, as if afraid he might vanish. Xiangzi had not uttered a word all this time, standing there in a daze. But at the old man’s mention of an empty stomach, he bolted outside and flew back in, cradling ten steamed buns stuffed with lamb in a cabbage leaf. He thrust them before the old man. “Eat,” he said. Then he returned to his seat, hung his head, and sat as if utterly drained.
“Ah!” the old man exclaimed, a sound that seemed both joyful and tearful, as he nodded to the room. “Brothers, after all! When you pull fares for others, you pour out all your strength, and in the end it’s hard to squeeze out one extra copper!” With that, he stood up, ready to leave.
Little Horse was about twelve or thirteen, his face thin but his body padded round with clothes. His nose was frozen red, two trails of white snot dangling from it, and he wore a pair of tattered ear-muffs. Standing beside his grandfather, he took a bun with his right hand, then automatically grabbed another with his left, biting into each in turn.
“Ah! Slowly now!” The old man placed one hand on the boy’s head. With the other, he picked up a bun and slowly brought it to his mouth. “Grandpa will eat two, that’s enough. The rest are all yours. When you’ve finished, we’ll put the rickshaw away and go home-no more pulling today. If it’s not so cold tomorrow, we’ll start out early. Right, Little Horse?”
Little Horse nodded at the buns, sniffing. “Grandpa, you eat three. The rest can be mine. I’ll pull you home later!”
“No need!” The old man smiled at everyone, a touch of pride in his expression. “We’ll walk back later. It’s cold sitting on the rickshaw.”
The old man finished his share, drained the cup of liquor, and waited for Little Horse to finish the last bun. He pulled out a ragged cloth, wiped his mouth, and nodded to everyone again. “My son joined the army, never looked back. My daughter-in-law-”
“It’s all right to say. We’re all like family here.” Then, lowering his voice to the others, he added, “The boy takes things hard, so very proud! My daughter-in-law left too. Our grandfather and grandson live by this rickshaw alone. It’s a broken thing, but it’s our own. At least we don’t have to worry about the daily rental fee. However much or little we earn, we just muddle along, the two of us. No choice! No choice at all!”
“Grandpa,” said Little Horse, having nearly finished the buns, tugging at the old man’s sleeve, “we still have to pull one more round. We won’t have any money to buy coal tomorrow morning! It’s all your fault. Just now, that fare to the back gate for twenty coppers-I said we should take it, but you wouldn’t go! See what you’ll do tomorrow with no coal!”
Some sat where they were, unmoving; others followed them out. Xiangzi was the first to follow. He wanted to see that rickshaw.
It was an extremely dilapidated vehicle. The paint on the footboard was cracked, the handles worn smooth to show the wood grain. A broken lamp rattled as it swung; the canopy’s support poles were bound with hemp rope. Little Horse fished a match from his ear-muff, struck it on the sole of his shoe, cupped his two small, black hands around the flame, and lit the lamp. The old man spat into his palms, gave an “Aiyah!” of effort, and lifted the shafts. “See you tomorrow, brothers!”
Xiangzi stood dazedly outside the door, watching the old man, the boy, and the broken rickshaw. The old man kept talking as he walked, his voice rising and falling; the lights and shadows of the road flickered and shifted. Xiangzi listened and watched, feeling a sorrow he had never known before. In Little Horse, he seemed to see his own past; in the old man, he seemed to see his own future! He had never been one to part with a copper lightly, yet now he felt a strange relief at having bought those ten buns for them. Only when they were completely out of sight did he go back inside. The chatter and laughter had started up again. He felt confused, unsettled. He paid for his tea, went out again, pulled his rickshaw to the cinema entrance, and waited for Mr. Cao.
The cold was intense. Gray dust seemed to float in the air; the wind raced high above. The stars were barely visible, only a few of the larger ones trembling faintly in the sky. There was no wind at ground level, yet a chill emanated from all sides. Long cracks had already frozen in the ruts; the earth was an ashen white, as cold and hard as ice. Xiangzi stood outside the cinema for a while and began to feel the cold, but he had no wish to return to the teahouse. He wanted to think quietly, alone. That old man and boy seemed to have shattered his greatest hope. But the old man’s rickshaw was his own! Ever since his first day pulling a rickshaw, his sole ambition had been to buy his own. To this day, he sweated and struggled for that goal. With his own rickshaw, he had believed, he would have everything. Hah, look at that old man!
Wasn’t his refusal to take Tigress all because of his dream to buy a rickshaw? Buy the rickshaw, save money, then marry a decent, respectable wife? Hah, look at Little Horse! If he himself ever had a son, the boy might well end up just the same.
Thinking this way, Tigress’s threats seemed to require no resistance. After all, he couldn’t escape the circle he was in. What did it matter what kind of woman he married? Besides, she might bring a few rickshaws with her. Why not enjoy a few ready-made comforts? Having seen through himself, he no longer needed to look down on anyone else. Tigress was just Tigress. Nothing more to be said!
When the film let out, he hurriedly fitted the little water cylinder back into place and lit the lamp. He even took off his padded jacket, leaving only a thin shirt underneath. He wanted to run like the wind, to run until he forgot everything. Falling down dead wouldn’t matter much either!
On the afternoon of the Kitchen God Festival, a steady east wind brought a sky full of black clouds. The weather suddenly turned a little warmer. As dusk approached, the wind died down further, and sparse snowflakes began to fall. The sellers of malt sugar melons grew anxious; the mild air, combined with the snow, made them sprinkle white clay dust on their sugar, afraid it would all stick together. The snowflakes soon turned to fine pellets that rustled softly as they fell, dusting the ground white. After seven o’clock, shops and households began their Kitchen God rites. Amid the flickering incense glow and the flashes of firecrackers, mingled with the dense, fine snow, the festive air held an undercurrent of desolation. People on the streets wore looks of haste and anxiety. Pedestrians and rickshaw passengers alike were eager to get home to make their offerings, yet the ground was slippery, and they dared not walk too freely. The sugar peddlers, frantic to sell their seasonal wares, shouted themselves breathless, their cries oddly jarring to the ear.
It was about nine o’clock when Xiangzi pulled Mr. Cao home from the West City. Past the bustling stretch around Xidan Archway, turning east onto Chang’an Avenue, the traffic of people and horses gradually thinned. The flat asphalt of the boulevard was sheathed in a thin layer of snow that glittered under the streetlamps. An occasional automobile would pass, its headlights stretching far ahead, turning the falling snow pellets into a shower of golden dust. Nearing the Xinhua Gate area, the road was exceptionally wide, and the thin snow covering seemed to expand one’s vision and refresh the spirit, lending everything a graver aspect. Chang’an Archway, the gate tower of Xinhua Gate, the vermilion walls of the South Sea-all wore plain white caps. Set against the red pillars and walls, they stood quietly beneath the lights, displaying the solemn dignity of the old capital. In that place, at that moment, one felt as if Beijing were uninhabited-a silent palace of jade and marble, with only faint sounds like the distant rumble of cannon.